


Shaken, Not Stirred

by Jay Auris (nighthawkms)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Brian and Jimmy are super secret spies, Except not so super secret, Hannibal AU, M/M, Slight dub-con at one point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighthawkms/pseuds/Jay%20Auris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian Zeller spent years as a CIA agent, only to get discharged after a mission gone wrong. His skills are inapplicable to most normal jobs, so he now works as a spy for hire, taking high paying corporate espionage jobs in order to pay the bills. He's always on the move, always running from past enemies, and he trusts no one.</p>
<p>He poses as an IT consultant on his latest job, and on the day he's hired, meets a man named Adam Price, who seems a little too interested in what he's up to. And then Price seems to show up wherever he's working in the building. It's starting to be too big of a coincidence to ignore...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my awesome Spring Fling partner (Hannibalartblog on Tumblr), my BFF beta Jim, and much thanks to the Spring Fling coordinators for salvaging this Big Bang!
> 
> Link to the Big Bang art on Tumblr: [Hannibalartblog's Art](http://hannibalartblog.tumblr.com/post/113770018051/hannibalspringfling-hannibalartblog-hannibal)

 

 

The streets of DC in the summer are hot and sticky, as if the pavement has been newly tarred over only moments before you step on them. Brian dislikes being so far south at this time of year - he could be swimming in the cool clear waters of the Mediterranean, or walking through the shopping district of Toronto, watching Canadians take advantage of their socialized medicine safety net by eating copious amounts of poutine. Instead, he's stuck here in the blistering heat, waiting on a cab to take him to the corporate headquarters of Crawford Bioengineering.

Brian watches a happy family stroll by the bench he's sitting on. He called for a taxi ten minutes ago, and the driver assured him it would be less than fifteen minutes until it arrived. The nice thing about having your trip comped by a multi-millionaire is that you don't have to sweat and stretch with the rest of the normal folk for a yellow cab. You can dial a number on your phone (burner, paid for in cash), give them a debit card number (untraceable, routed through three different fake accounts, changes every week) and be whisked away to wherever you wish to go.

The cab pulls up not two minutes later, and Brian slides into the back, giving the address to the driver before asking that the privacy window be raised. Once he's sure of the privacy (or however much privacy one can get in this sort of cab), he opens the briefcase he's holding. It holds a few odds and ends: a tablet, a notebook of some sort, nothing unusual. But there's a tiny corner of the fabric that peels back to reveal a pocket, and inside this pocket, is a yellowing slip of paper, slightly crumpled and worn about the edges. Brian pulls this paper out and unfolds it. There's a list of names and numbers written, as follows:

_Tier 530,200_

_Gideon 305,000_

_DuMaurier 204,000_

_Purnell 495,000_

_Verger 1,000,000_

_Lounds 35,000_

To anyone else, it would seem like a random list, but to Brian, it’s the weight around his neck, chaining him to this job until his credit is paid. He owes money, big money. Mercenary work isn't as lucrative as he thought it was, back when he first started doing it. But it isn't like he’s had much of a choice. You don't have many career options after getting kicked out of the CIA - you can't put 'spied on international governments and assassinated key enemies of the state' on an application to work at Denny's. And anyway, he'd been burned out of the agency by some very jealous, very vengeful people. He would've been dead in the back room of that Denny's within a month if he'd tried to start up a normal life.

He's been at this new life for three years. Three, long, brutal years of fleeing from country to country, city to city, trying to outrun each new debt that he accumulated over time. Somehow, no matter how good the take was, he always found himself getting grifted by the people who were supposed to pay him. The problem is his own fault, really - he has a taste for the dangerous jobs, and they usually come with untrustworthy employers. He's chased a high profile Yakuza boss down a dockside in Okinawa at 3 in the morning while the target’s cronies tried to land a headshot. He's fled through the underground tunnels of Paris with a bag of gold bullion and bullets flying inches from his backside. That Verger ‘debt ‘ is more of a ‘bounty’, put on his head after bringing down the man’s drug smuggling operation. The feds are still pulling cocaine-stuffed piggy banks out of the ruins of that factory, but it had been worth it, to give that creep some trouble with the cops. Sometimes Brian does jobs for the moral righteousness of it all. Those are usually the ones that land him in the most trouble.

But he's so tired of it all, and getting shot in the shoulder three months back had been a good wakeup call. He's not getting any younger, and it might be nice to make some easy cash, pay off his debts, and retire to one of the few places on the planet where nobody wants him dead.

That's what the last name and number on his sheet is for. He's known Lounds since he was a fresh-faced youngling at the CIA. She's always got her fingers stuck in somebody's cherry pie, always on the up and up about some new piece of juicy information. She's got a network and powerful people surrounding her. He's never liked to fuck with her for that reason, although there was that time that he actually did fuck her... but that's neither here nor there. The point is, she's been offering him easier jobs for ages. He saved her life one time, a bad run-in with a disgruntled mark that slipped through the cracks of her information network. He didn't save her because he liked her, he did it because he was smart enough to believe in that metaphor about the mutuality of scratching backs. Since then, she seems to have a bit of a soft spot for him, at least as far as she could ever have what normal people consider a 'soft spot.' She's offered him marks, boring corporate espionage work that pays well, but there was always something more interesting to do. Some new high to chase. Maybe he's still trying to prove that he's the best. He did that a lot at the CIA, tried to outplay anybody he was teamed with. That's what ultimately did him in there, when people got tired of being played, and he had nobody to stand by him when someone tried to take him down.

Finally, she cornered him in a bar three weeks ago in Madrid, bursting through the door, eyes burning like a wildfire. She slammed a post-it note down and chewed him out for a good five minutes, telling him to take this easy gig while he healed, or "so help me god, Zeller, I will put a bullet in your head myself and end your misery." It was an empty threat, but he got the message.

So now he's here, in the back of a DC cab, artificial air wicking away the sweat that's accumulated on his world weary brow. He's got a meeting with Crawford himself at three pm sharp, probably at the top of some over-sized skyscraper, where Crawford can try and intimidate Brian into accepting a lower rate while he's ninety stories up in a room with suspiciously weak glass walls.

Brian stared at the proposed payment on the post it note for hours when he first got it. Five million, as in actual US dollars. But that was always the starting number, the way to bait the hook, and he'll probably be lucky to take home two million by the end of this. At least he can pay off some of those debts now - he'll keep the Verger one as a point of pride. That scumbag isn't getting a red cent out of him.

He tucks the slip of paper back into the secret slot in the briefcase as the cab pulls up to a fairly large facility on the outskirts of the city. It's not more than eight or nine stories tall, and CRAWFORD BIOENGINEERING is spelled out in navy blue letters on the side of the plain white building. Various white vans and golf cars roam the parking lot of the facility, disappearing and reappearing out of garages and behind jutting structures. It's gated, with a security guard checking IDs, and Brian gives the guard the assumed name he's been using. "Mr. Ackerman? I've been told to send you to the executive entrance." The guard points the cabbie towards a red door on the right side of the building with an armed security guard standing in front of it.

The cabbie drops him there. Brian lets the guard pat him down; he didn't bring his gun, no need for that with a source that came from Lounds. After the guard confirms he's not hiding anything, Brian follows him through the red door, down a well-lit hallway, and into an elevator with wood-paneled walls and those fancy gilded support bars. The guard presses the button for the 8th floor, and Brian listens to  some half-baked elevator music while the machinery whisks them up to their destination with a gentle whir.

The doors open to another hallway, with two solid walls and one long, glass one that reveals a large conference room to the left. The guard leads him to the door of the conference room, and Brian steps inside, laying his briefcase on the gleaming mahogany conference table, glancing around. A crystal-clear glass wall showcases the D.C. skyline, making the city look gorgeous, and quite unlike the filthy rat-hole he knows it to be.

The guard says that Crawford will see him in a few moments, and Brian nods without turning; he's whipped a small digital camera out, and after fiddling with the settings for lighting and contrast, he takes three snaps of the view, keeping the best one and saving it to the internal memory. He's so careful, so precise about capturing the shot, that he's just barely finished when he hears footsteps behind him. He looks at his watch. Three pm sharp.

Brian turns to see a tall, imposing figure ( _probably six foot two, two forty five- no, two fifty pounds? African-American, no, don't know if he's of African descent, definitely does some body building on the side, in his early 50s_ -) dressed in a plain black suit, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes wandering over and measuring Brian up. Brian hadn't bothered to shave for this meeting. It makes him look younger, easier to underestimate. He doesn't want Crawford to underestimate him. Clients who don't take you seriously don't pay you well. Brian does some sizing up of his own - Crawford looks relaxed, at ease, but the focused look in his eyes lets Brian know he's not to be trifled with.

"Mr. Zeller," Crawford says, holding out his hand. Brian shakes it, feels the callouses on the man's fingers. Bioengineering isn't a career you build calluses with. He looks like he might be a boxer on the side, with the way he holds himself, strong upper body and confident form.

"Mr. Crawford. It's not doctor, correct?"

"Correct." Crawford motions for him to have a seat. He's got a folder tucked under his arm. Brian tries to not give it too much attention as he takes the first seat at the rightmost side of the table. Whatever's in there will come in due time.

Crawford takes the head seat, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward.

"Thank you for coming. Our mutual contact said that you could assist me in the procurement of some information I've been interested in taking a look at. There's a time table I'm under to get this information, which is why I'm bringing you in now."

Well. Straight to the point. Brian echoes Crawford's body language, folding his hands and sitting forward. It's an old psychology trick: people feel more comfortable when you take a similar positioning. Whether or not it makes Crawford feel more comfortable, he doesn't show it.

"What sort of information are we talking about?" Brian asks. "Our contact said something about corporate data. Usually that's something left to, excuse my stereotyping, greasy hacker types working out of a hotel basement. Unless you're talking about one of the big players, most small companies don't have good enough security to block a breach of their servers."

"You'd be right," Crawford says, "The problem is, their information is locked down on a completely isolated intranet. An outside hacker wouldn’t be able to connect to their system, because there is no connection to the outside. I need someone to infiltrate the building."

"What are we talking about here?" Brian asks. He's getting curious. This is starting to sound a lot less boring than Lounds described it as.

Crawford hands him the file folder. "The company is a startup called Bloom Genetics. Based out of an office building about ten miles from here. They're a research non-profit working with genetics - gene splicing, unlocking genetic code, looking for cures to genetic disorders. That sort of thing. As I said, about three months ago I got wind of a new project being worked on at the facility." He motions to the folder.

Brian opens it up and reads about half a dozen sheets listing experiments conducted, chemical compounds, and DNA markers. He can't make heads or tails of it, so he quirks an eyebrow at Crawford. "You know I know nothing about biology, right?"

"Yes. But you do have extensive knowledge of databases and an impressive record of hacking into high level security systems. That's all I need. One of my employees pulled those sheets out of BG's trash bins as a ‘fact finding’ mission. From what we've gathered from those plans, they’re going to be announcing a game-changing biomedical innovation at their annual conference in two months. The profits that Bloom has raked in for her previous employers from her previous projects are indescribable, and I’d like to get a piece of that pie.”

"Why not offer to buy out BG? " Brian says, starting to get the picture. "I'm sure they’d love to have the financial support and legal backing that your company could provide."

"I've tried," Crawford says, frowning at the table. "Believe me. But the CEO, Dr. Alana Bloom, refuses to do business with us. Says our practices as a company are sketchy. She's one of those idealist types, never thinks she has to get her hands dirty, even if it's for a good cause."

Brian's read up on the history of Crawford's company. He's not sure he doesn't agree with Dr. Bloom. But a job's a job.

“Hey, as long as it doesn’t keep you up at night,” Brian says, shrugging.

"I don't need your opinion on the morality of this operation," Crawford says. "I need your expertise. Do I have it or not?"

Brian waves a hand, nodding. "Just tell me what needs to be done. Oh, and about payment-"

"Five million." Brian tries not to look surprised when Crawford names the same number he'd initially offered. "This information is worth much more than that measly sum, and I don't want any funny business on your part. So, five million."

There's something in Crawford's look, something he's not telling Brian. "What's the catch?" he asks, closing the folder. "There's gotta be some reason you're hiring me and not an IT guy who can keep his mouth shut."

Crawford gets up and goes over to the window, folding his arms behind his back and standing legs spread, facing away from Brian. He's quiet for a minute, and Brian almost asks him again before he speaks.

"As I said, we're on a timetable. I've got a competitor looking into the same project, by the name of Lecter. Runs another biomedical company. He's known about this longer than I have, and he's most likely got a plant working at BG already. You'll need to watch out for them, make sure they don't interfere in the mission. And if Lecter's plant gets the information before you do, the deal is off."

_Competition_ , Brian thinks, leaning back in the chair. _Always a catch_. Still, there's a lot worse things than another latch on spy trying to outsmart him. He can handle one person.

"And if I find out who Lecter's plant is? What then?"

Crawford turns and gives Brian a curt nod. "Do anything you have to in order to stop them from getting that data. _Anything_."

Ahhh, now it becomes apparent why Crawford asked for somebody like him.

"So do you have any more questions?" Crawford asks, holding out his hand. "Or do we have a deal?"

Brian thumbs the file, staring at Crawford's hand. This seems too easy... but maybe that's because it's of a different caliber from the jobs he's used to. He won't be running from gunfire, or breaking into impenetrable fortresses. He'll be snatching some medical data. That's it.

"We've got a deal." Brian shakes Crawford's hand. The man's lip quirks ever so slightly, the only sign that he's pleased.

"They're currently hiring for an IT consultant position. I've taken the liberty of scheduling an interview for you tomorrow at noon. Get them to hire you, and this should be a piece of cake."

Brian leaves the building with a bit of a spring to his step. This will be good, easy money, if everything goes well. A few more jobs like this, and maybe retirement will be an option sooner than he expected.

 

~

 

Like anyone on their first day of work, Brian's nervous. However he's got several extra reasons that a normal IT consultant wouldn't worry about. Like the fact that he's coming into this job planning on stealing the most valuable data they currently possess.

The interview for the position went easily enough; knowing what people want to hear is a necessary part of his career, and he's perfected it over the years. So on Monday morning, he enters the building of Bloom Genetics, a faded brown structure, likely rented at low cost for the space rather than the neighborhood, which is mediocre at best. He's greeted by a bubbly secretary sitting behind a modern, sleek white desk at the entrance to the building. She walks him down a hall, past rooms with transparent glass walls, and men and women in white lab coats mulling about inside. They're bent over microscopes, tapping on computer monitors, and generally doing all sorts of science stuff that he has no idea about. But he's not here to be a researcher. He's here for IT.

The secretary leads him through the maze of hallways, stopping in front of a door at the very end and knocking.

"Dr. Bloom, Mr. Ackerman is here to see you," she calls. He hears rustling from inside the room, and the door opens. A fairly tall, petite brunette woman smiles at him, dressed in a red and black polka-dotted blouse, and a sleek black pencil skirt.

"Mr. Ackerman. So nice to meet you." She ushers him into the room, a few kind words to the secretary before she shuts the door. "I like to welcome all new employees of Bloom Genetics on their first day here." She motions to one of the seats in front of her desk, and he takes it, settling his briefcase on the floor next to him. It's the same one he took to Crawford's meeting, with the yellowing bit of paper stashed in the hidden pocket. He's not a superstitious man, but good luck charms never do any harm.

"I'm glad to be here, Ms. Bloom," Brian says, folding his hands and glancing around the room. The walls contain various memorabilia: her PhD directly behind the desk, newspaper clippings framed about the advances that Bloom Genetics has made in genetic research, a staff photo from late last year. Brian knows the company is less than two years old, but Bloom herself broke off from a highly prestigious medical research company and brought a team of crack scientists along with her. Hell, they'd raised part of the funds to create this facility on the internet, one of those crowdfunding sites. He'd read the press releases; she claimed she was tired of scientific progress being walled behind Big Pharma's teams of lawyers and monopolistic control. One of those idealistic, power to the people types.

"Please, feel free to call me Alana, we try to keep it casual around here. And do you mind if I call you Brian?"

He nods; He's always had a problem responding to any other name than his real one, so he usually just changes his last name for low-risk assignments.

"I'm just curious," she says, resting her hands on her knees. "This certainly isn't the highest paying job on the market right now. I wasn't expecting the position to be filled so quickly. Is there any particular reason you decided you want to work for us?"

Her expression is neutral, but he's got a feeling that he's being tested somehow. _Does she know about the plant? About Crawford?_ he thinks, spreading his knees and draping his arm over the back of the chair, setting a lazy, comfortable smile to his face. He needs an answer that sounds plausible, so he tells a half-truth.

"I admire what you're doing," Brian says, and it isn't a lie. "Yeah, other jobs paid better, and obviously I'm looking to pay my bills, but if I can support a good cause, even if I take home a little less in my paycheck, then I'm okay with that."

Alana listens without reacting much, but she seems satisfied with his answer. She nods and smiles, sitting back. "I'm glad to hear it. We try to keep an socially conscious attitude around here, and I prefer people who want to better the world. If that's you, you'll fit right in."

"That's me," Brian says, smiling back. _Yeah, I'm just a stand up guy. We're just going to forget about all those people I killed._ Well, at least he generally offs terrible people, even if other terrible people pay him to do it.

"I'm going to introduce you to the team you'll be working with." Alana rises and he follows her out of the room, back down the hall. He tries to get an idea of the layout of the facility. He'll eventually need to break into it at night to complete his job, but he's got plenty of time to study his surroundings.

She leads him down a stairwell one flight, into the basement of the facility. She goes through the exterior door into a long hallway, plain white cinder block walls and a grey cement floor. The long hall branches off to smaller hallways with doors at the end of each one. At the very end of the long hall is a door, with the word SERVER ROOM written on a black label slapped across it. There's no security guard in front of the server room door, but he can see a post where one might sit. _Overnight guard, most likely._

She opens the door, and they walk between two rows of parallel server towers, each one at least seven feet high, seven to each row. _The heart of the operation_ , he thinks. _Somewhere in this room is the puzzle piece Crawford wants me to snatch._

The towers end at a transparent glass wall, running parallel to the servers, and a double doorway cut into the glass leads to a large open room with green carpet and white plaster walls. There are three desks covered in computer equipment spaced around the floor, as well as smaller servers on movable carts parked in odd corners. Half-built computer towers lie in piles across the carpet, and the air has the faint scent of fried circuits.

There are also three living beings in the room with said mess- two men and one woman. "Brian, I'd like you to meet Will and Beverly." The man and women she pointed to are currently fiddling with something inside an open computer, and Brian hears something snap.

"Shit, Will, that was a three hundred dollar CPU."

"Mmmm. Yes it was. And now it's a flimsy bit of useless metal."

" _Ahem_ ," Alana says, and the two of them finally turn to look at Brian. "This is Brian Ackerman. He's the new IT consultant we discussed last week?"

"Right, right." Beverly tosses down the screwdriver she was holding and steps over, wiping lubricating oil off of her hand and holding it out to shake. "Nice to meet you. You any good with hardware construction or are you more of a software guy?"

"I've built a few PCs in my day," Brian replies, taking her hand. She's got a strong grip, and a strong smile; he likes her instantly. "What are you having trouble with?"

She waves towards the computer and the shaggy-haired man standing next to it. "CPU wasn't coming out. Will tried to tug on it, and it ended up snapping."

"Never had it catch on me like that," Will says, keeping his eyes on the guts of the computer, barely acknowledging Brian with a half second glance. "Usually they just pop right out."

They keep going on about solutions to salvage the motherboard, and on the one hand, it's interesting tech jargon, but on the other, Brian's curious about the third person in the room, a tallish, grey-haired man leaning against one of the desks, swiping across a tablet screen with his thumb. He appears to be reading something, chewing on a pen, solid brown irises zipping across the screen, but the tension of his shoulders tells Brian that he's paying complete attention to this introduction.

"Adam, what are you doing down here?" Alana asks.

The man looks up, offering an easygoing smile. "That's my computer they're fussing with," he says. "Crapped out on me this morning. I'm coordinating assignments from the tablet, but it's easier if my desktop is working."

Alana nods understandingly. "Adam manages our staff schedule, supervises the running of our facility, and acts as my assistant on occasion. He's our jack of all trades."

"Dr. Bloom's the only one who calls me my first name," he says, fixing Brian with an examining stare. "Everyone else calls me Price." He holds out his hand, and Brian shakes it. He can feel the other man testing his grip, as if trying to read his entire back story through the ley lines on his hands.

"Price," Brian repeats. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Price says, eying him like he's a proper piece of meat. Is the man... checking him out?

"We should get back upstairs," Alana says, nodding to Brian and Price. "Bev and Will will show you around down here and get you set up with an email and the security passwords. If you have any questions, feel free to give me a call." She waves once more and Price follows her out, looking back at Brian one more time. Brian frowns, confused by all the attention he's being paid, but there's only a flash of a smirk on the other man's face before he's out the door.

He doesn't have time to pay it any mind. Bev shuttles him around the office space, describing what sorts of operating systems they have running, how the servers are set up, and a whole lot of other technobabble that would go over the average layman spy's head. Luckily for Brian, a good portion of his work at the CIA had to do with computer systems, at least before they decided he was good enough to get thrown out into the field. He's a little rusty on some terms, but pretty soon he's fallen into a comfortable rhythm with Bev, although Will is another story. The guy gives one word answers and looks extremely uncomfortable to have his 'space' violated by a new person.

"We have two networks running here," Bev says, handing him a beat up looking tablet. "We've got a wifi network running for casual and clerical use; it's locked down with WPA2 security, but nothing important is allowed to be transmitted over it. The other network is completely wired, an isolated intranet that isn't connected to any public networks. Every user has their own unique ID log, and the system tracks every bit of data they transmit, every file they edit, every keystroke they enter when they log on. That way, if any information leaks out, we can go back and check who had access to the related files."

He takes note of all this, and in the back of his mind, how to circumvent it. _If I have access to an admin account, reviewing system files shouldn't be too hard, and it will look like one of the higher ups is the leak. Or I can manually plug into each server and bypass the accounts altogether_. The first option would be the slower, safer method, but if he's running out of time, the second could be implemented fairly easily with a late-night visit to the premises. The voice in the back of his head screams at him about trying a break-in with his shoulder injury, but he shrugs it off- taking out one sleepy security guard and knocking down a few security cameras won't be too strenuous. Speaking of which, he should get an idea of the camera layout of the building. Maybe even have a peek inside the camera room, if it's on site.

By the time she's all done explaining this, Will has reassembled Price's computer and is blowing dust out of the nooks and crannies with an air spray bottle. "This can go back," he says, finally looking at Brian full on for the first time. "You want to take it?"

"I don't know where his office is," Brian says, but Bev shakes her head and closes up the tower, handing it to him.

"It's easy, he works out of the room two doors down from Alana. Just follow the main hallway and you'll find it. I think he's even got his name on a sign."

"You sure the new guy should be running this to him? Don't you two know him better?" Brian asks.

Will and Bev share a glance. "That guy is down here way too often," Will says, a smirk barely lighting his mouth up. "Always doing a supervisor check, asking about how our systems work. I think he wishes he was born about twenty years later so he could've gotten into IT."

"He's nice, but you can deal with him for this," Bev says.

Brian rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "Not here an hour and I'm already getting the proverbial coffee run treatment. If I'm not back in twenty, come save me."

The tower isn't terribly large, so it's fairly easy to haul up the stairs and down the hallway. He sees the sign on the door, A. PRICE, and there's a soft mumbling echoing behind the wood, like a conversation is happening. Brian knocks, the mumbling stops, and after a moment the door opens.

"Brian, hi. Everything fixed?" Price looks to be in the middle of some reorganization, there are papers and files scattered all over the floor, and a cup of coffee tipped precariously over the edge of his desk. Brian takes a note as he brings the tower into the room: no family photos or decorations that would make the place seem homely. There's a couch in the corner, a beige thing that looks like it fell off the back of a truck. Price clears a pile of papers away on the desk, leaving an empty space next to his computer monitor, and motions to the spot. "Here, have at it. Let me clean up a little so you don't trip yourself up."

Price tidies up while Brian works, re-attaching all the cables, powering on the tower, running through the BIOS and setup screens. They don't speak. Brian's perfectly content to not make inane small talk, although he does see the other man glance at him every so often, almost like he can see right into Brian's head and squirrel out the real reason he's here. It's unnerving.

He's making sure the secondary hard drive is connecting properly when Price leans over the desk next to him, peering at the screen. "Just my luck, this is the second time in a month I've had this thing bug out on me. You got it set up fast though, thanks. I promise I'll start paying for my porn in the future to avoid this sort of thing."

Brian glances over, finding an infectious smile on the other man's face, and he can't help but grin back. "It's 2014, nobody pays for porn anymore."

Price looks delighted that his ribbing is being returned, his eyes light up and he gets little crinkles at the edges of his eyelids. "I wish you were here to tell me that last week. Would've saved me a hell of a headache."

"Yeah, well, now you know." Brian hops up out of the office chair, rounding to the other side of the desk. Price takes the seat he'd been occupying, and motions to the one across from him. "You need me for something else?" Brian asks.

"I'm sure Alana gave you a general interview," Price says, picking up the coffee cup and sipping it. "But I like to do my own interview, get to know people a bit. Plus, we need to set your specific hours, we work on a monthly schedule here."

"Are you even technically my supervisor?" Brian asks. He's not trying to be rude, but he hates being hassled by people who think they have more power than they do.

"Technically? No. This isn't an interrogation, Brian. Relax. I just want to ask you a few questions. I don't bite, I promise." He motions to the seat again. "Sit?"

Brian bites back a sigh and takes the seat. Price smiles again, and damn if that look doesn't throw Brian a little bit. It feels like the room brightens up when he does that.

Price finds a folder on his desk and flips it open, but he leaves it lying there, not looking at its contents. "So, you said in your interview that you just moved to the area, right?"

"Yeah, I was going to work at a different company but the contract fell through last minute and I'd already signed a lease." He's practiced this cover story dozens of times already, so it rolls right off the tongue. "Just glad I found this place instead."

"I'm fairly new to the area myself," Price says, folding his hands on the desk. "Can't have been here more than six months. It's a busy place, but you get used to the hustle."

"Any places I should check out? Besides all the tourist crap, I mean."

"Hah, avoid the tourist crap for as long as possible. But there are some nice smaller museums, parks, great restaurants." Price leans back into the chair and waves his hand in the air. "Plenty of bars too, catering to all sorts and _preferences_." He emphasizes the last word, and there's an underlying question buried there about Brian's own _preferences_. Price's face still smiles, but his eyes are searching for an answer.

What he would say, if he was being honest, was that he prefers people, no matter what sort of parts they've got. But his cover is straight, it's just easier that way, people ask less questions. Or they usually do, when they're not an overly nosy puffed up secretary. And for all Brian knows, this guy could be trying to figure out his sexual orientation so he can put ten feet between them at all times. It's not necessarily a come on.

"Sounds like I've got a lot to check out, then," Brian says, ignoring the prompt. "But I should get back to work before someone comes looking for me."

Price nods. "You're right, I've taken up enough of your time already." He stands when Brian does, reaching out to shake his hand. "Hopefully I won't end up down in your office a third time this month."

"Hopefully," Brian says, pulling his hand away quickly, as if he's been burned. Neither of them comment on it, but Brian can feel Price's eyes on his back as he walks out of the office.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! Missed a few days, but here's part 2! Also, here's the link to the Big Bang Art in case some of you missed it!: [Hannibalartblog's Art](http://hannibalartblog.tumblr.com/post/113770018051/hannibalspringfling-hannibalartblog-hannibal)

 

 

 

Bev and Will are pretty nice company, once you get to know them. Brian manages to wring several sentences out of Will every day, and Bev has the smartest mouth he's ever encountered, besides himself. And he's met a _lot_ of smartass people in his line of work. Alana stops by once a day just to say hi; she's got an affable personality, easy to talk to, trusting. Way too trusting for her line of work.

He finds that the building goes down one more floor. There's a room containing a heating unit with ducts and pipework, and several rooms filled with boxes that look like they haven't been touched in months. The IT department is outrageously disorganized, so it's easy to swipe a motherboard here, a graphics card there... within a week, he's got a little computer set up behind a wall of boxes, and he's jacked it into the intranet. Now he just needs the password to an admin account, and he can get started.

Crawford texts him on the burner phone he's got on Thursday night. _Progress?_  Crawford asks. _Going well_ , he replies. He doesn't like to say any more over texts, in case someone finds the phone. If Crawford really wants to talk to him, he'll call or send a car to pick him up.

Bev invites him to a karaoke night she's doing with some of her friends on Saturday. "You're going to get that one to sing karaoke?" Brian asks, pointing at Will. The other man snorts and shakes his head.

"You just wait," Bev whispers. "He's much more chatty when he's three drinks in. He'll croon some Sinatra for us."

Brian grins. "Thanks, but no thanks. I've got plans."

"Oooo, a lady or gentleman friend?"

"The former, yes." That's a lie, he has nothing to do on Saturday, but one of the promises he's made himself over the years is to not get too close to nice people on the job. You'll just get hurt when you inevitably have to leave, or they'll end up with a bullet in their head because you gave your enemy a weak spot.

What he does do is head a few miles out of the way to a bar close to the Capital that one of his old CIA buddies told him about. He gets a booth, orders a pint of house draft, and pulls out his digital camera. The picture he took in Crawford's office is still on there, a picture perfect cityscape; the lighting was great and everything. He sets the camera down on the mottled wooden table, and pulls out a leather-bound sketch book from his briefcase. Flipping open to a clean page, he wets the tip of a #5 pencil, smudges the graphite, and starts to sketch.

The scraping of the pencil and the hum of patron voices reverberates over the music pouring out of the stereo system, and it lulls him into a bit of momentary peace. For once, he's not thinking over the mission, coming up with new ideas, waking up with a knot in his stomach at 2am after an oversight he realizes he's made. For now, it's just him, the pad, and the pencil. He enjoys the smoothness of the lager at each sip, and he orders a second one after about half an hour. He's feeling pleasantly warm at the moment someone calls his name.

"Brian?" The voice is instantly recognized, and Brian's stomach twists sourly as he looks up to see Price standing next to his booth, smiling jovially at him. "Didn't know you were a fan of this place."

"Friend recommended it," Brian mutters, sliding the sketchbook back into his briefcase, and the camera a moment later. He doesn't explain what they're for, and thankfully Price doesn't ask after it. "You come here often?"

Price shrugs. "It's got good beer," he says. He's wearing a grey button down with the sleeves rolled up, but he's sporting jeans tonight, a first that Brian's seen. "You want some company?"

Half of Brian's mind screams that this was supposed to be his quiet time, away from distractions and suspiciously nosy co-workers. But the other half, probably the _drunker_ half, nods and waves at the seat across from him. "Go for it. Like the Billy Joel song says, better than drinking alone."

"Didn't take you for a classic rock sort of guy," Price says, sliding into the booth and flagging down a waitress. He orders the same as Brian's got.

"Oh yeah?" Brian snorts. "What was your impression then?"

"Modern pop. All that overproduced, voice modulated crap."

"Who says it can't be both?"

"Hmmm. Point taken."

"Do you live by here?" Brian asks. He's a little far past the beltway, and he'd assumed the distance he put between himself and the office building would be enough to ensure that he didn't run into anybody. So much for that idea.

"Nah, took the train." Price takes the beer from the waitress and hands her some cash. Not starting up a tab then. "This is one of the best subway systems in the world. New York, Philly, London, Tokyo, none of them can beat DC. My own opinion of course."

"You're well traveled," Brian observes, sitting up a bit. "You enjoy world hopping?"

Price nods and down about a quarter of his beer, licking his lips in an almost obscene manner. "I've had the chance to travel all over because of my career choices. Been lucky like that."

"Career choices, huh?" There's a thought trying to worm its way out of the back of Brian's mind, some sort of notion he can't put his finger on. The booze isn't helping either. "What were you in before this job?"

"Negotiations. Spent a lot of time screwing people over before I got into non-profit work. It's very rewarding, don't you think?" He quirks an eyebrow, and Brian nods his head hastily in agreement. "So have you always worked in information? Or is this a new career choice for you?"

"I mean, you generally go straight out of college to IT work, so..."

"I didn't ask about IT. I asked about information."

Brian stares at him, and the wires start to connect and spark on in his brain. The mentions of world travel, the continued questioning, the hints, the inferences... He puts his beer down, body hyperfocused, resting his hands on the table.

"You said you were in negotiations," Brian states, testing the waters.

Price nods, still sipping his beer. "That's right. I negotiated contracts for a good bit of money, and in return, I would negotiate things out of the hands of other people. Not all negotiations involve words and lawyers. Sometimes more... blunt measures are necessary."

_Lecter's plant. It's him._ All of a sudden, he feels foolish, like he's walked right into a trap. Price could've snuck something into his beer, or he could have a few of his buddies outside, ready to put a bullet in Brian's skull. He sizes the other man up; there are muscles hidden under that shirt, and Brian has youth, but Price likely has experience. He might be able to take the man... but he's none too keen to find out.

"Brian? You still in there?" Price is waving a hand in front of his face, and Brian resists the urge to snatch his weasley wrist out of the air and crack it in two on the oak table between them. He swallows, eyes darting to the exits, looking around for anything he might be able to use as defense. He isn't carrying a gun, hadn't expected this, stupid, so foolish...

"Sure am," Brian says, fingers twitching towards the leftover cutlery. Before he can grab a knife, Price's hand is covering his own, but it isn't pinning him down. It's gentle, almost soothing.

"Relax. You young guys are always so damn twitchy." He's smiling, with his eyes as well as his face. "I just wanted to talk. Get us on even ground."

"How did you know?" Brian asks. He might as well get some answers before anything happens.

"My boss man knows your boss man," Price replies. "They've been in competition for years. Lecter's always a step ahead of him. He knew Crawford had just gotten the tip, and would send somebody in. It was just a matter of sussing out the right candidate. I read your 'application,' I've come to understand how fake resumes are formulated after enough time in this business. I recommended hiring you to Alana."

"You- why? I'm guessing Lecter's not going to pay you either if he doesn't get the information first." He realizes that Price's hand is still covering his own, so he tugs it away, and Price does nothing to stop him. The other man looks completely relaxed, passive, unworried. It's just making Brain feel more and more nervous.

Price nods, swirling his finger on the beer glass. "True. I would consider offering you part of my payout if you'd switch sides, help me get the data to Lecter. But you don't seem the type to break a contract like that. Did Crawford feed you some bull about how he's the only one who can save Dr. Bloom's little operation?"

"Don't they always?" Brian shrugs, finishing off his second beer. He might as well. "They all want an excuse for why why they're doing isn't wrong. I don't try to be their moral compass." The alcohol makes him feel bold. Fuck this guy, who does he think he is? You don't blow your cover to an enemy spy over a pint of beer. He slides out of the booth, slapping some cash on the table. "I don't know what you thought you'd accomplish with this whole song and dance, but I'm not buying it. You stay out of my way, or I'll show you how I negotiate."

Price stares at him for a moment, then drops his head back, laughing. It steams Brian so much, but even with alcohol in his system, he's not dumb enough to cause a scene. He mutters a 'see you later' under his breath and leaves the bar. Nobody accosts him on the way out, and he makes it to the subway station without anybody taking a shot at him. So this wasn't an attempt to eliminate the competition. Price was warning him. It sure is a hell of an odd way to do things. Maybe corporate espionage plays out a bit differently than international mercenary work. But Price seemed to indicate that he'd done a similar line of work to Brian in the past, which means he should know better.

Brian gets back to his hotel room and sleeps the beer off. In the morning, he finds that he's left his #5 pencil at the bar, and he finds another reason to curse Price. Somehow he manages to finish his sketch, and then the photo is deleted off the camera memory.

When he gets into work on Monday, there's a note on the desk, with his #5 sitting on top of it. _You forgot this._ That's all the note says. Beverly is giving him a curious, wide-eyed look as he crumples up the note and tosses it in the trash, pocketing the pencil. "Don't ask," Brian grumbles, dropping his briefcase against the desk.

"Whatever you say, lover-boy," Bev replies. "But I know who's got that handwriting." Will snickers in the background. Brian feels his face flushing red, and he grabs the server maintenance checklist, disappearing into the rows to hide and cool down.

 

~

 

It's a few days later when he finds an anomaly. He's doing a rundown of the servers, looking for any lights that should be on that are off, or vice versa. Just a general spot check to see if everything's running correctly. He's eying some cords between two servers sitting back to back when he sees it: a black square USB stick that isn't supposed to be there.

Glancing over through the glass wall, he sees that Will and Bev are hunched over a computer, not paying any attention to what he's doing. Carefully, he slips his hand into the space between the servers and pulls the stick  off of the port where it's connected. He pockets it, calling out to his co-workers that he's going to go grab more coffee.

"Bagels in the conference room," Bev calls back. "One with cream cheese for me, one with butter for Will. Please and thank you!"

"Ass," Brian mutters, smirking as he leaves the room, walking down the hall and up the stairwell to the main floor. He turns right instead of left towards the conference room, and knocks on the 2nd door on the left when he reaches it.

"Come in!" Brian steps into Price's office. The man's on the phone, and he raises an eyebrow when he sees Brian. "I'm gonna have to call you back, Martha. I promise, we'll get you time off for your sister's wedding, okay?" He puts down the phone, pursing his lips. "Something you needed to see me about?"

Brian drops the USB stick onto the desk, trying not to show how annoyed he is at the moment. "Do you happen to recognize this?" he asks.

"So that's why I couldn't log onto intranet wirelessly," Price says. "Surprised you found it that quickly."

"You're lucky I found it and not the other two. What were you planning on doing with this?"

Price shrugs. "I wanted to set up a temporary wireless network on the internal server. See if I could access the files on it without having to deal with the user ID accounts. I was going to have it up for half a day at most."

Brian shakes his head in disbelief. "And you didn't think anyone would notice the brand new wireless network that just happened to pop up?"

"This is a busy neighborhood. People moving in and out all the time. There's an apartment complex behind this facility. A new network wouldn't have attracted attention."

"So you say," Brian mutters. Maybe Price is right, but it's still stupid to take the chance. He's going to blow his cover, and not that Brian cares, but the man will probably rat him out too if he goes down. "Find a different way."

"Fine." Brian's a little surprised that Price agrees so easily, but the man just shrugs, takes the USB stick, and stick it in his desk. "Anything else you needed?"

"That's all.” Brian spins on his heel and heads for the door.

“Wait,” Price says. Brian stops, hand on the door handle. "You could've brought that to Alana."

"You would've blown my cover, called me out."

"And I would sound like a crazy person. She'd have no reason to believe me when you've presented irrefutable proof and I've got no dirt on you but an unverifiable claim."

"So I didn't rat you out, are you complaining?"

"No," Price says, getting up and rounding the desk, leaning against the front. "I want to know why."

Brian doesn't know what to say. Price is right, he should've taken this to Alana, it would've saved him a lot of trouble. So he blabs out the first thing that makes any sort of sense.

"You returned my pencil," he says. "Now I'm returning something of yours. We're even."

Price gives him a funny look, like he's considering whether or not Brian's gone insane. But then he smiles, and this time Brian feels a genuine _flutter_ in his chest. God, the man is handsome when he smiles. He's pretty handsome at all times, to be honest.

"You want to get a drink after work?" Price asks.

"A... drink?"

"Yeah, sure. When's the last time you actually got to sit down for a drink with someone who knows exactly what you're going through?"

It's true, you don't generally have a lot of honest and open conversations in this line of work. Honesty gets you killed, especially on high-profile cases.

But this isn't high-profile. So maybe it's okay to bend the rules a bit.

"No specifics," Brian says, giving Price a pointed look. "No names, no places. About work or ourselves."

"Of course not. Anything else is free to be talked about, yeah?"

"Yeah."

Price nods. "Alright. Same place as last, seven o'clock sharp. No funny stuff."

Brian leaves Price's office, feeling like this is the oddest date he's ever been asked on. Well, it's not a date, more like a carefully agreed upon venting session.

The could be a terrible mistake. He's conversing with the enemy, but they're only enemies by virtue of their bosses being so. Brian's killed for cash before, but only scumbags, the lowest of the low. Price is a little kooky, but he doesn't seem all that bad. Though for all Brian knows, the guy's just toying with him until he decides Brian's of no more use and tries to off him. He won't go down easy, Brian knows dozens of ways to kill a man Price's size.

_And a few ways to fuck them_ , his brain helpfully adds on. It's been a few years... he can't help it. He's desperate, and Price is pretty attractive. But sleeping with the enemy is a bad, bad idea, even worse than meeting them for drinks and talking about your previous missions.

Even if said enemy is kinda hot.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

They meet at seven sharp, just like Price had requested. Brian scouts the area around the bar before he goes in, looking for anything suspicious: snipers on rooftops, hobos with a bit too much pep in their step, menacing black cars with tinted windows. The last one is pretty much useless to look out for since they're in DC, and every single person with any bit of government power drives such a vehicle. When he feels secure enough, he enters the bar. Price has taken the same booth in the very back, and since it's Monday, there are much fewer people milling around inside.

Price is facing away from the door, back to Brian, and if Brian wanted to (and if he had a gun on him) he could take the other man out right now. These thoughts come so easily when you've done what he's done. It's kind of disturbing, if he thinks about it.

He doesn't attempt any of these fantasies. Instead, he takes the seat across from Price, and finds a beer sitting in front of him.

"Wasn't sure what you liked, so I went the safe route," Price says, lifting his own glass.

Brian raises an eyebrow, picks up the pint, and clinks it against Price's. It's an odd feeling, like he's signed a temporary peace treaty with the touch of one glass to another.

"So, _Adam_ ," Brian says keeping his voice low, "what got you into this business?"

"Ugh, don't call me that, not while we're off the job." Price sips his beer, looking disgusted, although at the name or the brew, Brian can't tell. "Worst code name I've ever had. At least you didn't pick 'Steve' for yours or I'd never hear the end of it from Bloom."

"Bloom? She doesn't seem homophobic, bio doesn't fit."

"No, exact opposite. Keeps trying to set me up with guys."

Brian snorts. "You picked a gay cover story and named yourself Adam? You went looking for that one, man."

"I prefer to let a little reality bleed into my cover," Price says, smirking behind his glass. "Helps me keep all my ducks in a row. I used to be more elaborate, but I've come to feel that simple works best. How about you, _Brian_. How much of yourself do you put into your cover?"

He's definitely not going to admit that his real name is actually Brian. But as for anything else... "I try to stay me," Brian says. "If you're on a mission for too long as somebody else, you start to lose your real self. You become one of those guys who doesn't remember how to turn it off."

"Sometimes I think I should've gone into acting," Price says. "If you fail the pay is shit, but at least no one's pointing a gun at your head on a regular basis. Unless it's a prop gun."

Brian chuckles, nodding along. "Yeah, but where's the excitement in that? Would you have ever gone to Tokyo if you'd stuck to acting?"

"Hey, we said no talking about places."

"You already told me that one in your office."

"Still... Best not to tempt fate."

"Fine. My point is, people throw themselves off cliffs and out of airplanes to get a taste of the exhilaration we get on a daily basis. Life's boring if you take the safe, easy route."

"You're an adrenaline junkie," Price says. It's not a question, it's a statement. "That why you got into this business?"

"Mmm, not quite." Brian's fingers skim the tabletop, tracing the condensation from the pint glass across the wood top. "Let's just say, you give a kid superhero comics and he grows up wanting to be one."

"...You're a former fed, aren't you?"

"No comment."

"That's a yes." Price looks gleeful, like he's figured out another piece of the puzzle that is Brian. "I should've expected that. You do seem like a stickler for morality."

"How do you figure?"

"That whole pencil nonsense. You've got a sense of... fairness? That's rare for this line of work. Most of us bite and scrape and steal every bit we can get from one another."

Brian smirks. "That's why you all tend to destroy each other after a while. I saw it all the time back when I- when I was on a different side of the line." Well, he's basically admitted his former fed status. Might as well go whole hog here. "The ones on a government leash were always the least dangerous, because they were getting paid either way. But the freelancers had everything to lose if we took out their boss. They would fight to the end."

"How many?" Price looks at him intently, like Brian will understand exactly what he's talking about. And he does. _How many lives have you ended?_

"I thought we said no numbers." Brian scuffs his shoe on the floor, fixing his eyes to the pint glass, watching the bubbles of carbonation escape the surface.

"No names and places. Never said anything about numbers." Price winks. "Come on, you don't want to do the proverbial dick measuring?"

"Thirty-nine," Brian sighs, sitting back. "At least, as far as I can confirm. Hard to count which bodies were mine and which were my partner's for a few of them. You?"

"Forty-two, and that's a Douglas Adams number, so I'd thank you to not make me have to make it forty-three."

"That seems low, you're at least ten..." Price points his thumb up, "fifteen..." He points his thumb up again, "twenty years older than me?"

"Maybe yours is just high," Price points out. "You seem like one to take any high-risk mission thrown your way. My origin story is much less bloody."

"Oh yeah?" Brian drops his voice even lower, suddenly realizing how cordially they've been speaking. Not that anyone is looking or listening still. "Have you just been wading in white-collar crime for the last quarter century? CEOs paying you to steal their competitor's latest smartphone prototype?"

"Not quite," Price says. "There are too many names and places to tell you how I came into this business. I don't have the job security of having all my files buried somewhere in a Department of Defense office with hatched black lines across the words like you probably do. What you need to know is that I could kick your ass six ways to Sunday if I wanted to."

"Oh really, _old man._ " Brian grins, enjoying the bit of bravado Price has thrown his way. He feels much too easy talking to this man; it's the first real conversation he's had in ages.

Price chuckles, downing the rest of his beer. "Ahhh, the folly of youth," he quips. "Did you know that one of the greatest martial artists on the planet is a ninety-eight year old woman who studies judo? She could probably kick both of our asses. Point being, these hands are capable of giving pain or _pleasure_ , depending on my mood. Pick the one you prefer."

Brian hides behind the a long swallow of beer, feeling his cheeks turn a tinge of pink. That was definitely flirting, no question about it. He wonders if Price is genuinely interested or is only flirting to throw him off. He hopes it's the former. He assumes it's the latter.

They stay until around 9, and Price squeezes his shoulder on the way out the door. "Let's do this again," he says, turning the opposite direction Brian is walking. "We both need it."

"I'm still going to win!" Brian calls after him. Price just waves a hand in the air and keeps walking. Brian almost wants to throw a punch at his face, if only to get him to show any sort of emotion. They're competing for the same information, they should be at each other's throats. But Price just doesn't seem phased. Does he not think Brian's any sort of good competition?

He watches Price stroll away, and clenches his fists, turning on his heel. That night, he falls asleep with the phrase _pick the one you prefer_ whispering in his ear.

 

~

 

Crawford calls Brian the next week, on his way out of the building. "Any progress?"

"I'm working on it," he says, leaning up against the door of his rental car. He's parked a ways out, so he's not worried about anyone nearby hearing this.

"It'd like a little more assurance than 'working on it.' I'm not paying you to screw around in there."

"Look, you hired me for a reason." Brian watches people leaving the building, and a few coming in for the evening shift. "You don't think I want my money as soon as possible? I'm going to get you what you need, but I can't just charge in their and grab the data like it's a treasure on a pedestal. I'm moving as quickly as I can." He spots Price leaving, and has the oddest urge to wave at him, as if they're _friends_ or something. And then Price spots him and smiles. Brian feels his breath catch in his throat.

Crawford drones in his ear. "And have you found Lecter's plant yet?"

"...No," Brian lies, watching Price walk out of the gate, onto the street. "Are you sure he's got one here?"

"I'm positive. You need to get on track, Zeller. Dr. Bloom's conference is in a month, and I'm absolutely sure she's going to release whatever project she's working on at that point. My R&D department needs time to work with the data when you hand it over."

"Plenty of time. As soon as I have what you need, you'll be the first to know."

"Keep me updated." Crawford hangs up. Brian gets into the car and rests his head against the seat, sighing heavily.

What am I doing? he thinks. _I'm letting myself be distracted. I could've gone looking for that admin password any time this week, but instead I spent most days shooting the shit with Will and Bev and making doe eyes at Price in the hallways._ It's true, Brian gets a flutter in his stomach every time he sees the other man now. He's been trying to attribute it to that feeling you get when you and another person share a secret that nobody else around you knows. But that doesn't explain all of it.

He makes himself a promise; he's going to get that admin password in the next two weeks.

 

~

 

The opportunity presents itself on the following Wednesday. Dr. Bloom is going to be out of the building for a meeting with shareholders downtown, which means her office will be unguarded for most of the afternoon. Brian has considered putting a keystroke logger in her computer before, but if Will or Bev found the hardware, he'd be screwed. He needs to get onto the computer itself and find her ID and password.

For some reason, the security cameras are hooked into the intranet itself, so it's a fairly easy fix to hack into the feeds. He sets the hallway feed to continuously loop the same 30 seconds of footage lacking anyone in frame. After 20 minutes, the camera will switch back on, which means he has 20 minutes to get in and out of the room without anybody seeing him. Nobody mans the security camera room during the daytime anyway, but he doesn't like taking chances.

He pretends to be a little off center all morning, holding his stomach, wobbling slightly when he stands, and finally, Bev says to him, "You going to survive until the end of the day?"

"Not sure. I think I'm going to take a bathroom break, see if I can get my stomach to settle."

"TMI, man," Bev says, wincing. "Fine, we'll cover for you."

" _She'll_ cover for you," Will says.

"You're a real charmer, Graham," Brian says, limping out the door. He heads upstairs and does the same act for anyone he passes in the hall, and thankfully people give him a wide berth. Nobody likes getting sick.

He waits in the bathroom until he hears a lull outside, and then pokes his head out the door. Nobody around, good. He walks quickly, turns the corner and heads towards Dr. Bloom's office. When he gets to her door, he glances back, checking to make sure he's not seen. Then he steps inside, shutting the door behind him.

Dr. Bloom's computer is on. Brian takes a seat, and pulls out a USB stick, inserting it into the front panel of the computer. He's written a little program to make this task go faster and to leave as few traces on the device as possible. He really doubts Bloom is so careless as to leave her password on a little post it note somewhere in this office.

Suddenly he hears voices coming down the hall. Shit, none of the staff who work in this corridor are supposed to be here; they're all at the conference with Bloom. Glancing around the room, the only spot he can possibly see to hide is under the desk. So as the voices get closer, he slides out of the chair and curls up in the small leg space.

"You're looking for the vacation time forms she said she left on the desk for you?" That's Price's voice. Brian's surprised, he'd thought Price would be going with Bloom today. "Yeah, hold on let me check."

"She said they'd be right on top and I could just take them." _Shit, that's Will!_ There's a set of footsteps walking towards the desk. Brian holds his breath and prays that they stay on the other side. He's not that lucky. Price steps into view, and they lock eyes for the briefest of moments. Then Price is pulling out the chair and sitting down, and what the hell is he- Brian bites back a yelp as Price's knees collide into his own, and the other man practically squishes him into the confined space.

"Well," Price says, "I don't see them on top, let me check and see if I can find one for you." He starts opening drawers, rummaging through papers, the whole time jabbing his knees into Brian's side. _He's doing this on purpose, the bastard!_

Finally, Price pulls a sheet from the bottom drawer and Brian hears it changing hands. "There you go," Price says. "Go on without me, I've got to cross a few appointments off of her scheduling book."

He hears footsteps and the door swings shut. Then Price rolls out and looks at him under the desk, eyebrow raised. "Are you planning on staying under there all day?" Price asks.

"Shut up," Brian growls, crawling out of the space and getting to his feet. "Was that really necessary?"

"Nope, but it was amusing." Price is wearing a shit-eating grin, and Brian doesn't know whether he wants to punch or kiss it right off his face.

He chooses neither option, turning around to face the computer. A small window has popped up with a "ARCHIVAL COMPLETE" message. Good, the program has finished its work.

A pair of knees hits the back of his legs, and he almost falls backwards. "What are you doing there?" Price asks.

"None of your damn business," Brian says, pulling the USB stick out and shutting off the screen. He turns to see the other man spinning around in the chair. "Do you ever take anything seriously?"

Price stops the chair, chuckling and rolling forward, legs spreading to rest his knees on either side of Brian's. "I always take things seriously," he says, fixing Brian with a Cheshire cat smile. "Doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself while doing it."

Brian swallows and steps back, pocketing the USB stick. "Fantastic. If you'll excuse me, I'm getting out of here before I tempt fate twice."

He heads towards the door, and he hears Price getting up and following him. He steps back out into the hall, but before he makes it five steps he hears a group of people walking towards him, Dr. Bloom's voice piping up amongst the cacophony of conversation. _The conference group is bac_ k, Brian thinks, cursing and looking around. Of course they'll all be coming back to their offices, and this hall only leads one way. Maybe he can pretend to be waiting for Dr. Bloom to discuss something, but what-

He feels a hand on his shoulder. "Here, come with me," Price says, pulling Brian into his office. He shuts the door behind them, and Brian breathes a sigh of relief as the voices disperse.

"Thank you," Brian says, genuinely grateful.

Price shrugs his shoulders. "I owed you one, for the wifi network incident." He pats a hand against Brian's pocket, and Brian almost jumps. "You mind telling me what this is about now?"

Brian hesitates. The smart thing would be to blow Price off. He's under no obligation to tell the other man what he's doing, and now he's got the upper hand in their game of cat and slightly feistier cat. But he's been enjoying this game they've been playing...

"You want to get a drink later?" Brian asks. Price gives him a quizzical look. "You said we should do that again."

"I did. Didn't think you'd agree."

"Seven pm sharp," Brian says, opening the door. "I'll buy the beer this time."

 

~

 

"So what did you pry off of Dr. Bloom's computer?"

They're back at the same bar, seven pm sharp. Brian had been the earlier arriver this time. He'd been tempted to try a different brew or a different seat, but there was something comforting about the same table and the same drink with the same person. It's a sense of normalcy he's never really had.

Brian raises an eyebrow, continuing to drink his beer. The words are piling up at the back of his throat. Price's hand is uncomfortably close to his own on the table, and he slides it away, pretending to adjust his shirt collar.

"What do you know about the high profile project security?" Brian asks him. He wants to test Price's knowledge first, see how far along he'd gotten before Brian came along.

Price shrugs. "Every user of the intranet has an ID and password. Files are restricted for access based on the user. Only administrators have access to all files in the system."

"And what would Dr. Bloom be considered?"

"An- ahhh. I see." Price smiles and takes a swig of booze. "Clever. So now that you've got the information, it should be easy to get what you need and give it to Crawford, right?"

"Not quite. There's a problem. Well, two problems. There's a redundancy in the intranet that prevents the same user from being logged on to two stations at the same time. If a second station attempts to log in with the same user, both stations lock down, an alarm sounds, and security won't let anyone leave the building until both stations are identified. If I try to access Bloom's account during the day, I run the risk of logging on at the same time as her. Which means it's safest to do this at night."

Price nods. "That's the first problem. What's the second?"

"All the computers in the building are set to shut down at 9 PM and not come online again until the first workers arrive again at 7 AM. The internal clock in each one is set to refuse to boot to the OS until the correct time is hit. So basically, even if I break in at night, I wouldn't be able to access anything."

"And how are you going to solve that problem?"

Brian smirks. "Wouldn't you like to know." No, he won't spill the beans on everything. He's got a little bit of sense left.

"So, hypothetically, what happens next?" Price asks. "If you get the data to Crawford, and he pays you, what happens after that?"

"What always happens."

"You'll leave," Price says. He smiles tightly, but there's no light behind his eyes. Brian feels a knot welling up inside his throat.

"Of course," Brian says. "Neither of us can stay. One of us will have a boss looking for revenge, and he'll want it on the both of us."

Price sighs. "I was getting to like it here. Nice city. Nice job. Fascinating people." He looks directly at Brian for that last one.

"You'll find another nice city with a nice job and fascinating people."

"You ever consider settling down in a place where people don't want to kill you? Giving all this up?"

Brian feels a twinge in his shoulder, he rubs it absentmindedly and shakes his head. "Not time for that yet." Oh, but that is the worst lie he's told so far.

"Still chasing that high, aren't you."

"My motivations aren't your business, Price."

Price lowers his voice. "Would you let someone show you an ounce of concern for once?"

Brian leans over the table, glaring. "I don't _need_ anyone's concern. Especially not yours."

"Why? You think you're the one guy in this business who can get by without friends?"

"Spies don't have friends. At least not ones they can trust."

Price rolls his eyes, slumping back into the booth. "I remember being that young and stupid. Almost got me killed a dozen times. Look, you can't trust near anybody in this job. But you have to find people you can rely on. If nobody has your back, you're not going to make it very long doing what you do. You don't have the feds to help you out anymore."

"And you think _you're_ the one I should be trusting?" Brian scowls. The taste in his mouth has soured. "You and I both know that can't happen." He's done here. He gets up and throws money on the table for the tip, striding out the front door.

He hears the footsteps striding after him, and he ignores them for the first two blocks. They start getting closer, and Brian turns to tell the other man off. "Go home, Price, you're not-"

The breath is knocked out of his lungs as two arms grab him by the shoulders and slam him against the wall of a building. Instantaneously his body reacts, jerking a leg back, arm trying to twist out of the grip, but his bad arm, the one with the injured shoulder, is twisted up behind his back, and he hisses in pain and tries to stay still.  The body behind him pushes him flat against the wall, cheek scraping the cement. A mouth brushes against his ear, and Brian shivers at the contact.

"This is what I know," Price says, mumbling words for only him to hear. "You favor your left arm every time you get out of a chair, or take a drink, which is odd for a natural righty. Because I actually have a _network_ , I hear all sorts of interesting tidbits, like who's gotten in trouble in what part of the world recently. And I know someone of your build and general appearance got shot in the right shoulder three months back in Panama, and has dropped off the radar since then. So tell me, _Brian_ , why am I not a good person to ally with?"

But Brian can't concentrate on giving an answer, because this is the closest he's been to another human being in ages, and his body is reacting in a frighteningly eager way. Price doesn't even seem to notice that he's rubbing himself against Brian's backside, and it's only when Price twists his arm a bit more and the sound that comes out of Brian's mouth is a little too pleased that the other man seems to realize what's going on. Price lets his arm go, and Brian leans against the wall, panting slowly, not looking at the other man. The feeling is coming back to his arm, and with it comes a searing pressure in his shoulder. He curls the limb against his body.

"Leave me alone," he says, voice hoarse. "I've always been alone. It's better off for both of us."

He hears the other man walk off in the opposite direction. After a few minutes, he gets up off the wall and heads his own way home, not looking back.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may end up with five chapters, depending on how I split the next bit. I'll post the next chapter in the next few days!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man I'm so bad at keeping a proper upload schedule @_@ Let's see if the last chapter makes it up before the end of the year.

 

 

Friday comes, and Brian decides he's tired of waiting. He's got the layout of the building memorized down to a science: where the security cameras are located, what the overnight shifts are for the guards, where the weak points of the building are to make an entrance. No more wasting time. Tonight's as good a night as any to get the data.

He dresses in black, flexible slacks and a fitted black t-shirt, with light black boots on his feet. The fabric is tight enough to not get caught on anything, but loose enough to let him move. He's chosen boots over sneakers because they're less likely to squeak and alert any of the guards. He doesn't bother with a mask; he likes a full 180 degrees of vision, and if he's successful, it won't matter anyway if someone sees him, because he'll be delivering the data to Crawford tomorrow morning.

He parks a few blocks away and slips through the alleyways of the apartments behind the BG building. It's easy enough to hop the fence, staying out of the camera's vision as it turns back and forth across the back parking lot. The Friday night security guard likes to throw the back door the whole way open when he goes outside, which gives Brian enough time to sneak in behind him as the door swings back shut.

He knows the guard won't make it back to the security office for another fifteen minutes; he takes a smoke break at 11:45 every night. So Brian has plenty of time to slip into the room and hack the whole camera system, looping it just as he did when he broke into Dr. Bloom's office. Now no matter what, the footage will show nothing on the cameras for the next two hours. No one will even know he was here tomorrow morning, as long as he doesn't get caught by the guard.

Brian doesn't know the route the guards take inside the building. He's only had the chance to scout the outside routines, so he's flying blind for this next part. Luckily, he doesn't encounter anyone as he slips into the interior of the building, creeping past offices that he would confidently stride past during the daytime.

He feels a little safer once he makes it into the stairwell. Two flights down, and he's jogging down the long hallway to the storage room where his slapdash computer is hidden. The custom machine doesn't have the time-based security overrides built in. He sits down, boots up the system, and logs in with Dr. Bloom's account.

There's a tense moment when he wonders if somehow, he's missed an override, and alarms will start going off, but nothing happens. He's greeted with a "Hello Dr. Bloom!" message as the file archive opens. The folders are numbered by security clearance, 5 being the lowest clearance, ones that everyone can access. Brian's not part of a research team, so he's only been granted level 5 access on his account. Dr. Bloom's account obviously goes all the way up to 1.

He opens the level 1 archive, and is met with several sub-folders. They all look like they might be important, and looking at the folder size, there's only about ten gigabytes of information stores in the level 1 archive. It's easy enough to plug a USB stick into the PC and copy all the files from that folder onto it. He checks the level 2 folders, but that's all the PR and marketing division crap. Whatever he's looking for, he's ninety-nine percent sure he's just put it on his USB stick.

Easy, this has all been too easy. Maybe that's why Brian's not so surprised when he walks out of storage to see Price standing at the end of the hallway, between him and the exit. Brian can't have that good of luck for everything to go his way.

Price is wearing a white button-down shirt, black skinny tie, and black pants. He looks like he's just come from some sort of formal engagement, although that could all be a show for whoever he gave the slip to get in here.

Brian groans and starts walking towards him. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know. Wondering why you went through that whole song and dance to sneak into a building when you could've just told the security guard you need to get into your office for some paperwork you forgot." Price points behind him. "The guy didn't even question it. I swear, it's amazing nobody's broken in here before, with the poor security they've hired."

"Congratulations, you've fooled the dumbest security guard in existence." Brian gets closer, and Price steps in front of the door. "If you'll excuse me, I have a nice cushy hotel pillow to get back to."

"That's going to be a problem," Price says, leaning back on his heels. "See, we both know why you came here tonight. And if you're going home, it means you got what you came for. Which means you got what _I_ came here for."

Brian gapes at him, then starts to laugh. "Are you really going to do this?" he asks incredulously. "After your half-hearted attitude towards this mission, now you're going to finally grow a pair and steal what I've gotten through a lot of hard work?"

"I won't have to steal it if you hand it over."

"Not happening," Brian says, steeling his feet against the floor and stretching his shoulders. "So you can either move or I can make you move."

Price sighs and cracks his knuckles. "I do like you, Brian," he says, taking a stance. "We could've worked well together."

Brian doesn't let him say anything else, swinging a fake-out punch towards Price's left side. Price blocks it as Brian's other fist connects with the man's hip, knocking him back an inch or two. But Price doesn't even flinch. He swipes his leg out, trying to knock Brian's feet out from under him. Brian dodges to the right, throwing his left elbow out at Price's face. Price swings his head back, and Brian's elbow misses him by an inch. They separate again, both bobbing and weaving, watching each other, looking for mistakes. Price is fast for a guy his age. He definitely hasn't been a desk jockey his whole life.

Unfortunately for Brian, he jogged about four blocks from his car to the building, and then hopped a fence, and then sprinted across a parking lot to avoid a security camera. Suffice to say, he's got slightly less energy than Price right now. But that slightly less is enough. He leans back from Price's punch, and too late, realizes Price's leg is coming around to the back of his knees. He tries to dodge, but Price's shin slams into the back of his left leg, and he goes down, landing hard on his bad shoulder. A shock of pain rushes through the limb, and he rolls over, only to feel something slam into the side of his head. He blacks out.

When he comes to, and it can't be more than a minute later, he's being dragged down the hall. He jerks his arms, finding his wrists have been handcuffed behind his back. A thick cotton gauze is wrapped around his mouth, muffling his angry yells as he tries to call for help. His eyes aren't particularly keen on focusing, though he does manage to look up and see that Price is the one who's got his arms hooked under Brian's shoulders.

You're really damn heavy, you know that?" Price asks, not that Brian can answer. The voice sounds canned and far away. His head aches, his arm aches, and Price kicks his feet out from under him every time he tries to lunge to stand.

Price drags him into one of the storage closets, this one filled with cleaning supplies, wire metal shelving on either side of the door. Brian's still trying to struggle, straining against the cuffs, trying to remember how to dislocate his wrist through the fog of his likely concussed brain. He can't think, he has to think, he's in so much trouble...

He's dragged to his feet up against the back wall of the closet, between piles of mops and yellow wheeling buckets. Price has a hand against his chest, holding him against the wall. Brian kicks a leg out, but it's a slow, lazy movement, and Price easily nudges it away.

There's a rustle, and time comes to a standstill as Price presses the smooth, cold metal of a pistol against his forehead. Brian freezes, fearful adrenaline coursing through him, eyes focusing, finally, on the gun. Price has a neutral expression on his face. There's no hint of uncertainty, and it's terrifying to behold how emotionless he seems holding a gun to another person's head. Holding another person's life in his hands.

"Lecter told me to kill you the moment I knew who you were," Price says. "I'm glad I didn't listen to him." He cocks the barrel, and Brian closes his eyes.

_I wanted to trust you_ , he thinks. _You were right. I needed a friend._

There's another click... and nothing happens.

Brian blinks his eyes open as Price lowers the gun. He's smiling and Brian can see his finger has pulled the trigger. _It wasn't loaded._  He shouts "you fucking asshole!" into the gag, which comes out sounding like "mmf ffmm mfffm!"

Price chuckles and tosses the gun onto one of the metal shelves, reaching out. He unties the gag and pulls it out of Brian's mouth. Brian coughs and licks his lips, glaring, cheeks burning red with humiliation.

"I'm sorry," Price murmurs, and his hands go back to Brian's cheeks. "I needed to know how badly you really wanted to fight me for this."

"Why didn't you do it?" Brian asks, leaning into Price's hands, hating himself a little bit for how nice it feels. "You won. You beat me. You're not going to claim your prize?"

"You think killing you is what I want?" Price traces the pad of his thumb against Brian's mouth, and Brian shivers, body responding to the intimate touch. "I had a different prize in mind."

"What-" He doesn't even have time to ask the question. Price's mouth is against his own, warm and welcoming, demanding his attention. He sets Brian's nerves on fire, tongue flicking forward like a cat thirsting for milk, winding its way into Brian's mouth. Brian hears the sound that flees his throat, a desperate yearning for more.

Price's hand finds its way down, down, down... Brian yelps and jerks against the cuffs still binding him. "You want this too, don't you?" Price asks, mouth finding purchase against the stretch of Brian's neck. "Tell me you want this, or I'll stop."

"I _need_ this," Brian moans, bucking his hips up. "P-please, I need _you_..."

Price nods into his shoulder, and his hand slips beneath the waistband of Brian's slacks. "Keep your voice down, just in case."

The next few minutes are a blur of feeling, punctuated by Price's soothing intonations, " _shhh_ , baby," and, "that's it..." and "almost there, beautiful." When Brian comes, he bites down on his lower lip, drawing blood, nails digging into his palms as his body jerks towards the hand stroking him through an orgasm. He rests his head on Price's shoulder as the other man rubs circles into his back, humming softly.

Brian can feel Price's own hardness pressing against his leg. When he's feeling stable again, he pushes away from Price and drops down to his knees. Price raises an eyebrow, but Brian only has to look at him and say "please." Price slides his own slacks down, and Brian noses his way between the man's shirt tails, taking in his length and starting to suck.

One thing Brian's got going for him is youthful stamina. It takes a bit less time before Price is stumbling backwards, gasping and wrapping his hand around the tip of his cock to block the spurt of his own release. Price stares at Brian as he comes down off his own peak, and Brian knows what he must look like: hair sticking out all over, lips ruddy red, pupils blown out. Price's tie has come loose, and he's panting open-mouthed, eyes never leaving Brian's face.

Price pulls his pants back up and helps Brian to his feet, pressing Brian back against the wall. Silently, he reaches into Brian's pockets, searching and pulling out the USB stick. Brian wants to protest, but what's the use? The other man tucks the drive into his own pocket, and then pulls out a small piece of paper, pushing it into Brian’s pocket.

"Leave the way you came," Price says, pulling him back for one more breath-taking kiss. Brian feels something being pressed into his hands, and then Price is gone.

Brian feels the item; it's small and metal with spiky jutting points. The key to the handcuffs. He unlocks himself, rubbing his wrists, leaning into the wall to rest for a moment. His fingers travel down to pluck the piece of paper from his pocket, and he opens it to see a few scribbled words:

_tomorrow 9pm_

_constitutional inn room 302_

Brian breathes in, closing his eyes. _I'm free falling with no parachute._

It's exhilarating.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

 

Brian doesn't know what one is supposed to wear when going to meet your enemy turned friend turned surprise lover. He figures he might as well look a little nice, so He shows up in a light blue button down and striped grey slacks, a navy blue tie completing the ensemble. He brings his briefcase; he's loathe to go anywhere without it.

He knocks three times on the hotel room door, and Price opens it so fast, Brian swears he was standing there, waiting for the knock. Price is wearing a green polo shirt and black slacks. he looks miles more relaxed than Brian could ever possibly hope to be right now.

"Hi," Brian says.

"Hi," Price says. He steps aside. "Come on in."

Brian steps inside and finds a regular hotel room with a king sized bed and white wine chilling in a bucket on the dresser, next to the small flat screen TV. "Did you- is this rented for tonight? Or-"

"I live here," Price says, shutting the door behind them. "Lecter's putting me up. A few months of rent are nothing compared to what he stands to make." Brian feels a hand sliding across his shoulder, and Price slips past him. "You want something to drink? Wine?"

"Please." Brian places the briefcase next to the dresser. He stands, hands in his pockets, trying not to look nervous. Price pops the cork on the bottle and pours the wine into two tumblrs, handing one off to Brian. They clink glasses, and drink. Brian drains the glass, feeling the need for a little liquid courage.

Price puts his half-drunk glass back on the dresser. "I wasn't sure that you'd come," he says.

"I wasn't sure that I should. I feel like I'm your mistress, sneaking in while your wife's out for the evening." Price chuckles, smiling that smile that caused all this trouble in the first place. "What am I doing here, Price?"

"Jimmy."

"Huh?"

"That's my name," Price- Jimmy says, taking a step towards Brian, cupping his cheek. "My real name. It doesn't feel right to keep that from you here."

"Oh." Brian presses a soft kiss to Jimmy's palm, feeling the other man shiver against his lips. He puts the glass down and steps a little closer, resting a hand against Jimmy's chest. "Then... Brian."

"...It's not a code name?" Jimmy asks. Brian shakes his head. "I'm guessing your last name isn't Ackerman, then."

"It's Zeller."

"Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller," Jimmy says, leaning up, ghosting his lips against Brian's own. "What an odd couple we make."

Brian kisses him, hard, crowding him up against the dresser. There's a roaring in his ears, a rush of blood through his system. It's the same rush he gets when he's in the middle of a firefight, or running for his life down the alleys of a major metropolis, or getting his ass kicked and then kicking ass right back. Jimmy is the needle in his arm, pumping in pure adrenaline. He's the singular heartbeat on Brian's heart monitor after a flatline. He's the oxygen filling Brian's lungs, letting him breathe after drowning for so long.

Jimmy pushes him backwards onto the bed, crawling on top of him, mouth never leaving Brian's. He grinds down, and Brian moans, hitching a leg over Jimmy's hip and bucking upwards. "I really fucking hope you bought condoms," Brian says, unbuttoning Jimmy's slacks and plunging his hand inside.

"Of c- _coooaaahhh_...." Jimmy doesn't finish speaking, just presses his mouth to Brian's neck and nips at his jaw. Brian ruts himself against Jimmy's leg while he strokes the man's cock. He's a nice size; Brian had trouble taking him in all the way when he was sucking him off yesterday. Brian considers the idea of that cock being inside of him, and the thought alone nudges a whimper out past his lips.

"Price- Jimmy," Brian says, and the name is foreign on his tongue, but he could see himself getting used to it. Jimmy lifts his head to look. "I want you to make love to me. Not fuck. Make love."

"When's the last time you did that?" Jimmy asks, kissing a trail down Brian's chest as he unbuttons his shirt.

"Long enough ago that I can't remember," Brian says. "Help me remember the difference."

Jimmy works him open gently, taking his time, catching each moan from Brian's mouth on his own lips. Brian feels so warm, so at peace; his body aches with a pre-orgasmic bliss. "Hush now, Zeller," Jimmy says. "Zee... I'll make you remember."

Brian leans on his elbows while Jimmy rolls on the condom. Brian’s eyes are half-lidded, head buzzing from the wine and the anticipation. They discard the rest of their clothes, and Brian takes a moment to take the whole sight of the other man, cock jutting proudly against his belly, faint lines of muscle across his abdomen.  "You're gorgeous," Brian says.

"I'm so much older than you." For once, Jimmy looks uncertain.

Brian leans up, pulling him down into a greedy kiss. "As if I give a damn," he says when they break apart, giving Jimmy his best bedroom eyes. "I want you, Jim."

Jimmy nudges him up the bed, against the freshly laundered hotel pillows, and hitches one of Brian's legs over his hip. Brian wraps his arms around Jimmy's neck, and then Jimmy's pushing into him, slowly, taking his time, waiting to see that Brian's still okay before continuing forward. Brian feels himself falling again, and he clings to the other man, riding out the sensation, face pressed to Jimmy's shoulder. When he opens his eyes, the other man has slid in to the hilt.

"You okay?" Jimmy asks. Brian nods, leaning up for a series of quick, soft kisses. He clenches a bit, and Jimmy whines, pulling back a bit. "Careful. You're tight, and I want to take this slowly."

"I'm tight because you're so big," Brian mumbles, nuzzling his cheek against Jimmy's chest.

Jimmy chuckles. "What a flatterer you are."

The clock ticks by the minutes as they move in a slow, steady rhythm, barely separating before pressing flush together again. Brian feels sweat curling down his back, and the cool swish of the sheets contrasts the fire of Jimmy’s skin against his own. They've stopped speaking, no need, their bodies are doing enough talking for now. Brian tucks his head under Jimmy's chin as they slide in tandem. He's never felt this safe. This whole.

"You okay?" Jimmy asks after a while.

Brian lifts his head, nodding, mouth carved in a smile. "I'm starting to remember."

Coming is another rush, like jumping off a waterfall. Jimmy pulls him forward as Brian starts clenching tighter, and the angle changes, rubbing against his prostate, speeding up the process. He can feel himself cresting the rapids, and he goes over with Jimmy's name on his lips. Apparently Jimmy isn't too far behind; a few more thrusts and he stutters, pushing in deep, brushing Brian’s over sensitized organ and drawing a low moan out of him.

They stay joined for several minutes after. They didn't work up a big sweat, or move around a lot, but Brian feels more exhausted than he's ever been after sex. It's like his soul was worked open, not just his body. After Jimmy pulls out and disposes of the condom, they curl around each other, because it just feels right. Brian drops into sleep quickly, and when he rouses several hours later, Jimmy's still there, one arm tucked under Brian's head, snoozing gently.

Brian stays still for a moment. He doesn't get to see people in this state very often. Jimmy's gorgeous like this, lines of stress smoothed out to nothing, lips barely parted for puffs of air, body loose-limbed and tensionless.

Brian lifts his head, very slowly, so he doesn't wake the other man, and then slips off the bed, his bladder yelling for attention. When he comes out of the bathroom, he picks up his briefcase, unlocking it and pulling out his sketchbook and pencils. He sits back on the bed, cross-legged, and putting a pillow over his lap for support, he starts to sketch.

Jimmy blinks his eyes open as Brian is shading in details on the sketchpad. He spends a moment watching Brian work, then nudges his knee. "What are you doing?" he asks, yawning.

"Eh, it's nothing." Brian tries to close the pad, but Jimmy reaches out and grabs the cover, eyes asking permission to see. Brian sighs and nods, handing over the pad.

Jimmy sits up and examines the drawing, frowning. "You drew... me?"

"I don't like to keep physical records of where I've been, too easily traced," Brian says. He draws a sheet over himself, feeling indecently naked. "But sometimes I'll see a sight too beautiful to not want to remember. So I draw it."

Jimmy flips back through the book, turning the pages gently. "All the rest of these are scenery pieces." Brian nods at the statement, and Jimmy flips back to the first page, where he's been captured in graphite, forever sleeping. Brian doesn't consider himself a very good artist. He's probably messed up half a dozen details of that drawing. Why did he even think he could draw people after only drawing landscapes for so long? But Jimmy closes the book gently when he's finished, and holds it out to him with both hands, his grip gentle on the leather, like it's something sacred.

"So," Brian asks, putting the sketchbook on the side table. "What now?"

Jimmy leans over the bed and grabs his pants, rummaging in his pockets. He comes back with the USB stick, and holds it out. "It's yours, if you want it," he says.

"You'd give it up, just like that? After all that time you spent trying to find it?"

"I already have my reward," Jimmy says, gazing at him in a way that makes his cheeks light with fire. He reaches out, takes the stick, and stares at it. Then he puts it on top of the sketchbook and rolls over, pinning Jimmy to the bed. He grinds his hips down, and Jimmy groans.

"We'll decide later," Brian murmurs. "I've got better plans in mind for now."

"I'm glad I told Alana to hire you." Jimmy squirms as Brian runs kisses across his shoulder blade. "I've got impeccable taste."

Brian chuckles. "I still don't get why, if you knew... you made it harder on yourself."

"I like a challenge. Life's more interesting that way. Before you came along, this job was getting boring."

"You risked millions of dollars and potentially your life for a _challenge_? You're an idiot."

Jimmy chuckles, stretching his neck out to give Brian better access. "Maybe. But I'm the idiot you're about to make love to."

"So presumptuous." He isn't wrong, though. Brian spreads Jimmy's legs apart, and decides he'd be the idiot not to go for round two.

 

~

 

Later, much later, Brian rolls over to see Jimmy twirling the USB stick between his fingers.

"Here," Brian says, grabbing his tablet out of his briefcase. "Let me see."

"I took a peek at it this morning," Jimmy says as Brian plugs the stick into the device. "Look for the folder named Project 37."

Brian opens the folder and looks at the file names: "Prototype 1," "Prototype 2," "Genetic Marker Formula 1.26.1", and half a dozen other PDF files. He feels a weight on his shoulder, glances back to see Jimmy pressed against his back, peering at the screen.

"That one," Jimmy says, pointing to a file named "Presentation Version 0.92." "It's a Power Point that they're going to use at their yearly presentation next month, look at the date on it." He touches the screen, and a slide show pops up. Brian sees sketches of prosthetic limbs, long lists of chemicals, and various graphs he can't make heads or tails of.

"I have no idea what this is," Brian admits.

"Keep going," Jimmy says. "It starts getting interesting a few slides forward."

Brian keeps scrolling, and now things start making sense. "Nerve ending regrowth," "biomechanical fusion," "low-cost, non-invasive procedures," and, "complete return of sensation to new limbs."

"Metal arms and legs that feel like flesh and bone arms and legs to the user," Brian says, finally putting it all together. "Fully functional prosthetics." He looks at Jimmy, eyes wide with awe. "This is... this is revolutionary science."

"Bloom was working on the beginning stages of this when she left her other bioengineering company," Jimmy says. "I did some digging. Did you know that you could patent a gene up until recently? I tried to wrap my head around some of these files, and from what I can tell, the whole process she developed involves both a hardware and a 'software,' innovation. The software being the human genome. She knew if she developed this at her old company, it could patent the gene and make the cost for this procedure prohibitively expensive to rake in as much money as possible."

"Fuck... Jim, we can't..."

Jimmy nods, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "I know. I spent all day thinking it over. I'll do a lot of things for money, but I try to stick to neutral jobs, where I can still sleep at night after they're complete. This... this isn't neutral."

"Then what are we going to do?" Brian asks. "Crawford and Lecter are expecting data."

"I had an idea..."

 

~

 

_2 weeks later..._

Brian sips his coffee and watches the sun jut low in the sky. The large sculpture he's seated in front of has been a source of amusement for the last half hour, as he watches people clamber over the limbs of the enormous aluminum man, taking candid snapshots and generally enjoying the late summer afternoon. The National Harbor is crowded today, a perfect place to get lost and not be so easily found.

He feels a rumble from his pocket, and pulls out his phone. _Look behind you :)_

Brian glances back and rolls his eyes. "You could've just said hello the normal way," Brian says as Jimmy takes a seat next to him on the steps. "Why are we meeting here?"

"I like the architecture," Jimmy says, stealing his coffee and pointing to the sculpture. "It's called _The Awakening_. Guy trying to crawl his way out of the sand that threatens to bury him alive. It's a metaphor I feel a certain kinship with at times."

"Did you talk to your buddy up in Albany?" Brian asks. He squints through his sunglasses, then lifts them up. "Did you get a haircut?"

"Yeah, to both. I was getting a little shaggy. And as for your first question, done and done." Jimmy reaches into his pocket and pulls out two USB sticks. "The executable file on here will mimic a PDF, and when Crawford and Lecter open it up, the virus will infect the entire server system. Their R&D departments will be down for days. They won't have enough time to send someone else in to steal the real data, with Bloom's presentation in a week's time."

"Speaking of which, I sent her the email warning her to beef up security this week," Brian says. "And I left instructions for securing the weak spots I exploited to get the real data."

"You signed it 'with all my love, Brian and Price" like I told you to, right?"

"Sure, you can believe that if you'd like."

Jimmy smirks and leans back against the upper steps, waving the USB sticks. "We'd better be on a plane far in the air to another country by the time these are delivered."

"I thought corporate espionage was supposed to be safer than blue-collar crime."

"These guys have millions of dollars in their bank accounts, and we're going to cost them millions more by not delivering the goods. I'm sure they'll be pissy enough to put out a bounty."

Brian sighs. "Add another one to my list," he says. Jimmy raises an eyebrow. "What, you don't have half a dozen people out for your blood?"

"No. I'm actually good at my job."

"Hey." Brian swats his shoulder, seeing the teasing smile the other man wears. "I didn't get into this business the way you did. I may have... floundered a bit for my first year or so. Owe some people some money."

"To the tune of how much?"

"...Few million."

"And you don't pay it off because...?"

Brian grins. Jimmy sits up; now it's his turn to look shocked. "I was kidding before, but wow you are bad at this."

"Hey!" Brian says, annoyed this time. "The whole point of taking this job was to make enough to pay those debts. Damn me for having a conscience..."

"I'm just honestly amazed you're not dead. Really, that's the more shocking revelation here."

"Enough, alright? What, you telling me you've got millions stored away somewhere?"

Jimmy shrugs. "A few. I'll be comfortable when I decide to retire."

"Yeah, well, that's not gonna be an option for me for a while," Brian says, getting to his feet. "Come on, let's walk the dock."

They head out onto the long wooden pier, walking close, hands just barely brushing. Brian wonders if this is what normal people do, wonders what his life would have been like if he had never gone into the CIA, had never gotten burned. _Infinitely less exciting_ , he thinks, glancing over at Jimmy. _And infinitely less rewarding._

"What do you think you'll do next?" Brian asks, keeping his eyes on horizon. They can't stay here, and Brian needs to find more work _. Lounds is gonna kill me for fucking up this job, she'll never give me another one._ Jimmy's got friends, he'll have no trouble finding another mission.  They'll stay together until he does, but Brian can't ask of Jimmy any more than that. He's had trysts before, he knows how this goes. Hopefully they can stay friends. Even if every fiber of his being is screaming that he needs the other man.

Jimmy stops, and Brian turns to face him. "I had a number of ideas," Jimmy says. "You want to hear them?"

"Sure, your ideas have been pretty good until now."

Well, first, I was thinking of helping you pay off your debts," Jimmy says. "And then maybe we could offer ourselves as a dynamic duo to employers. Price and Zeller, two super spies for the price of one."

"If that was a pun it was terrible," Brian says, but he's grinning. "Really? You'd want to team up with me?"

"Oh, I have no intention of letting you go," Jimmy says, stepping closer, resting his hands on Brian's hips. "Do you trust me, Zeller? You need somebody in this world to trust."

Brian doesn't hesitate. "Yeah. I do."

"Good. Now kiss me quickly. We've got a plane to catch."

"You already booked a flight?"

"How's Italy sound?"

_"Molto bene."_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! :D

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be posting one chapter a day for the next 4 days. Come back tomorrow for the next part!


End file.
